Nothing strikes as more uncomfortable than sitting in front of a psychiatrist, whose beady eyes constantly scan me from top to bottom, giving me shudders. His grim expression tells me everything I need to know - I look like a wreck and he disapproves. Great. 

It's become a common sight for people on the streets to stare and whisper, hands pointing and eyes darting. It's come to the point where it's amusing, to know what they mutter under their breaths about me. At first when it began, I used to hide under anything I could. I let my hair fall around my face like a curtain, blocking out the penetrating stares I got. But as time passed, I got used to it. 

These are the good days, where I'd feel empowered enough to walk in public with no shame.

You don't want to know what happens on the bad days.